


burn to emerge

by manycoloureddays



Series: A Permanent Reminder [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gang AU, Tattoo AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2015-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-16 06:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2258994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manycoloureddays/pseuds/manycoloureddays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>in which Clarke sets up her own studio and tensions between the Grounders and the 100 in Mt Weather are on the rise</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> this is set three years after the events of A Permanent Change. before we begin i have a few thank yous: silver_wings (for being the best beta ever at 1am) blackravenswing (for being an incredible soundboard and ideas woman) your support has been invaluable. i absolutely could not and would not be writing this fic without them ♥♥♥

For once in her life Clarke Griffin had no idea what to do. Staying put on the uncomfortable plastic seat Chief Kane had directed her to and attempting to keep her mind blank had seemed like a good place to start. Apparently the meditation classes she’d taken with Octavia were going to be useful after all. But no, thinking about Octavia would only send her tumbling down the rabbit hole. No thinking about her friends. No thinking about the 100. No thinking. Not tonight. Not after the blood, and the guns, and Charlotte being so young, nowhere close to ready, and, and... _Breathe Clarke, just breathe._

Nails biting into her palms, heart racing, tear tracks dried on her face, blood on her hands, Clarke searched the room for something – anything – to focus on. Her eyes trip over Kane and the other police officers. She glances over at Jasper and Bellamy sitting shoulder to shoulder; the former looking graver than she ever thought possible, the latter refusing to meet her eye. Most people, she thought, would interpret that look as bored, with a hint of frustration. Clarke knew him too well to fall for that, and right now she would give anything not to recognise the fear in his eyes. Fear of betrayal. Fear of betrayal by _her_. Finally she finds Raven. Slumped in her chair, signature red jacket at her feet, and looking directly at Clarke. From anyone else the prolonged eye contact would be unnerving, but from Raven it’s comforting, it anchors Clarke in a way nothing else can. She glances down at her right bicep before zeroing in on Clarke once more. And Clarke gets the message loud and clear. A nod to the paper crane she’d inked the first time Raven came into her shop was worth more than words. _A permanent reminder._ Pressing her thumb to her wrist Clarke feels her pulse thrumming beneath the heart she has tattooed there. _A permanent reminder. A permanent reminder._

“Miss Griffin. We’re ready to take your statement.”   As she walks across the room three pairs of dark eyes follow her. Two steadying and supportive, and one filled with more distrust than she can bear.

 

* * *

 

 

              

Clarke decided she was too excited to wait for Wells anymore. She flipped the sign to OPEN for the first time and smiled.  She had spent all the money her dad had left her on the deposit for the building. Upstairs living space; downstairs, _Gryphon Designs_ tattoo parlour. She would be paying off the mortgage until she was in her forties, but after spending three years working with Lincoln she felt ready to set up her own business. She was also sick of making excuses every time Lincoln’s friend Tristan came in. Not only was he the infamous leader of Mt Weather’s oldest and most prominent gang, he was also a complete creep. Clarke had set up her business on the other side of town. Both Lincoln and Wells had warned her against the move, claiming she would now have ties to the three major players in Mt Weather’s gang war – the Grounders, with her work now gracing the skin of many of the gang’s members; the police department through her old family ties and her dad’s death; and the 100, a relatively new gang that was gradually claiming more territory in the town’s southern district, including the neighbourhood Clarke had just bought into. But she had been determined, and when Clarke Griffin set her mind to something she usually got what she wanted.         

Unfortunately her tenacity was one of the qualities she had inherited from her mother. Abby Griffin was not only appalled when she found out what her daughter was doing for a living after Lincoln’s initial job offer, she had attempted to stop Clarke from using her father’s money “so frivolously”. She had involved their family lawyer, trying to find something in Jake’s will that precluded Clarke spending her inheritance starting up a business she didn’t approve of. That had led to a particularly ugly fight. Any animosity that had faded in the years since Jake’s death in police custody, a death that could have been avoided if Abby hadn’t meddled, had come right back. While Clarke had spent the last couple of months setting _Gryphon Designs_ up, Abby had enlisted her best friend Cece and Wells’ dad to help her get in touch with her daughter. Clarke had been ignoring phone calls and emails from Thelonius for weeks, but had occasionally spoken to Cece, who had been more understanding and just wanted what was best for her goddaughter.

She jumped when, fifteen minutes into her first day, the door flew open, banging loudly against the wall.

“Sorry! Didn’t mean to break your wall.” A girl strode in, exuding confidence. She was wearing combat boots, a red leather jacket, and a smile that was at once infectious and anxiety provoking. It was the Helen of Troy of smiles Clarke decided, already pitying and envying the people who dealt with the girl on a daily basis. “I’m just really excited there’s finally a non skeevy looking tattoo parlour on this side of town. I’ll deny it if you tell anyone, but I’ve been walking past every day for the last two weeks waiting for you to open.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Clarke laughed. “As long it’s just enthusiasm and not stalking, I’m perfectly happy for you to stake out my shop...”

“Raven,” she supplied, sticking out her hand. “And definitely enthusiasm. The art on your website is incredible.” Before Clarke had a chance to respond, or indeed to pull her hand away, the tattoo on the inside of her wrist caught Raven’s eye. “Nice!” She whistled appreciatively, running her finger over the anatomically correct heart tattooed over Clarke’s radial pulse point. “Is that your own work, or did someone do it for you?” 

“It’s my work. It was my second actually.” Raven’s eyebrows shoot up, impressed. Clarke loved this. The moment people realised she’s wasn’t just some privileged ‘Arker’; when they saw her art and felt something. _Maybe this is going to work out after all._

“What was your first? And how the hell did you draw something this complex accurately on your own wrist, your second time?”

“My first was basically the same thing, but properly to scale over my friend’s heart. He was a little nervous about that to be honest,” Clarke laughs at the memory of Wells’ sitting in a chair at Lincoln’s, frozen in place and trying to look confident and reassuring, missing entirely and looking like a deer caught in headlights. “I’ve been drawing my whole life. I traced half the images in my high school textbooks. I got really good at hearts.” She rubs her thumb over the tattoo. It had become a talisman of sorts, for when the grief and anxiety over her father’s death became too much to handle. A link to Jake and a reminder to breathe all in one neat image.

“Well then, you should have no trouble with my design.” She fished around in her back pocket before pulling out a crumpled sheet of graph paper. “Can you do this on my bicep?” Clarke looked up from the rough sketch of an origami raven.

“What’s your pain threshold like?”

“Pretty high,” Raven smirked. Clarke got the impression she’d been asked to prove that statement on a number of occasions. Probably won multiple bets that way too.

“If it’s your first tattoo I wouldn’t recommend getting it done on your bicep, but it’s entirely up to you. As for the design, I can do it no problem.”

“Great! Let’s get started.” Raven shrugged of her jacket and hung it on the back of the chair Clarke had set up in the back corner. Lying backwards to give Clarke easy access to her bicep she really did seem completely ready.

“Alrighty then,” Clarke pottered around, setting herself up. “You wanna tell me about the design, or are we ignoring the blatant reference to your name?”

“Hey now, a lot of time and energy went into coming up with a great first tatt design. Don’t dis the raven.” Glancing at Raven’s face though Clarke saw she was grinning. “You got the name reference, that’s not too difficult, but it’s also a reference to my favourite team. I’m a...”

“You’re a Ravens’ supporter? No way! Me too.”

“Clearly I’m a great judge of character,” Raven replied smugly. “Anyway, double meaning for the bird choice. Origami because it’s about design, and using your hands. I’m a mechanic. Building stuff, fixing it, taking things apart and putting them back together; it all makes sense to me, you know. So I figured the clichéd bird design to go with my name could fit well with the creative side.”

“And let me guess, the bicep so you can look at it while you work?” One of the best parts Clarke had discovered about working as a tattoo artist, other than unleashing her creative side, was getting to know so many people. Inking someone’s skin, especially when it was a design close to their heart, could be incredibly telling and intimate. Clarke had used her work to hone her intuition; she was much better at reading people these days.

As they talked, and Clarke worked, the minutes fell away in the blink of an eye. Raven didn’t flinch once after the first jab, and Clarke didn’t attempt to hide how impressed she was. In fact, in the few hours she had spent with Raven, Clarke felt more comfortable and in sync with her than she did with most people she’d known her whole life. She really hoped this wasn’t going to be Raven’s only tattoo. As if she had read Clarke’s mind, as Raven was leaving she grabbed one of Clarke’s business cards.

“I have a few friends who are interested in getting ink. And a few more that need to stop going to that guy who thinks bacteria and infection are just one of life’s little quirks. So you’ll have tonnes of annoying clients through here in the next few weeks I should think.”

“That would be great! What about you? Are you going to be a return customer?”

“Definitely! Like I said, I’ve been enthusiastically not stalking your place for a fortnight. Besides, this bird is gorgeous! You’ll definitely be seeing more of me.” As soon as Raven had shut the door behind her, Clarke pulled out her phone, dialling Wells’ number.

“So guess whose business won’t be failing this month!?”


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> goodness me this has been a long time coming! i apologise for the wait, i hope you guys enjoy this chapter... the number of messages i've received about this fic blew me away! thank you for the love ♥♥♥

“Is this seriously where you want to bring them to get inked? Here? With little miss skin as white as snow, hair as golden as a fucking princess’?” Clarke heard the voice dripping with disdain before her door burst open for the second time that week. She turned away from Wells, who had come in to visit on a break from work to see who else wanted to break her shop. For less enthusiastic reasons this time, or so it seemed. She was faced with six feet of tall, dark and angry, and Raven, looking positively diminutive next to him. The smirk on her face, and fond eye roll told Clarke her new friend was in no way intimidated by the overbearing looming height, or the furrowed brow, or the wild gesticulation.   
               

“Hey!” Raven grabbed her by the hands and pulled her in for a bone crushing hug. Clarke could almost feel Wells’ eyebrow raised shock. Just because he’d basically been her only friend for twenty years did not mean she couldn’t make friends on her own. It had been her choice. Sort of. Her awkward people skills tended to get her marked as standoffish. She blamed her parents for not socialising her properly as a child. She only knew Wells, so Wells became all she needed.   
               

“Hi Raven,” she smiled easily. Whose well socialised now? “How’s your arm healing?”  
               

“Nicely, thanks. You must be Wells,” she stuck her hand out. “Take your shirt off.” Tall, dark and angry snorted, Clarke laughed, and Wells, to his credit, didn’t bat an eye.   
               

“I assume you’re referring to the heart?”

“That and you’re both very much Bellamy’s type and I can’t ask Clarke to whip her shirt off to stop him grumping at me now can I?” Tall, dark, angry and impossibly named after one of Clarke’s favourite science fiction writers immediately switched from looking vaguely amused to downright murderous. Raven glanced over at him, and seemed to think that the ‘about to explode with frustration’ look was nothing to be alarmed about because she turned back and gestured to Wells’ shirt again. When both he and Clarke looked pointedly at Bellamy, Raven rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry about him. He has trouble emoting. He’s all bark though. Well, bark and steam.”  
               

“Oh for the love of – Reyes, shut UP.” Clarke took one look at the huge shit eating grin on Raven’s face and they both burst out laughing.   
               

Still giggling, Clarke turned to Wells and tugged his shirt up high enough to reveal the tattoo.  
               

“I still can’t believe that was your first,” Raven said, coming up behind her and resting her chin on Clarke’s shoulder. She stiffened slightly, not used to being so close to someone that wasn’t Wells anymore, but it was Raven and she seemed to have Clarke sussed out already because without making a fuss she took a step back to smile up at Bellamy. “Can you believe it was her first? That was what, three years ago?” Clarke nodded. “Three years experience with that as her starting point, and you’re worried about what exactly? Because last time you complained about the amateur artwork, and the time before that you complained about health code violations. As far as I can tell Clarke passes both tests and then some.”   
               

“Reyes,” he sounded put upon, and Clarke wondered how many times he had continued arguing with Raven well past the point of being convinced.   
               

“C’mon Blake, at least look at some of her art-“  
               

“You showed me her website last night.”  
               

“And have a chat-“  
               

“I don’t need to chat. I’m looking for a tattoo artist not a friend.”  
               

“And once you’ve gone through the motions you can agree with me, like we know you’re going to, because I am always right, get something done, and then we can go back and tell everyone that Gryphon Designs has your stamp of approval so they don’t risk serious illness in the name of street cred,” Raven finished. She hadn’t drawn breath once, or acknowledged the fact that Bellamy was speaking. Clarke’s first impression of the girl had been right. She was a force to be reckoned with.   
               

“Fine,” and for the first time since entering her shop he turned and spoke directly to Clarke, “you have folders of work that aren’t on your website?” She nodded. He raised an eyebrow; well? What are you waiting for? Clarke raised both; for you not to be a dick, clearly. Eye roll; you are going to be a pain in my ass, aren’t you. Smirk; only if you continue being a dick. Eye roll 2.0 and a groan; fucking fine, what did I do to deserve both of you? Beatific smile; we’re amazing. Dick. “I’d like to look at them if that’s alright with you?”   
               

“Of course,” she smiled. She ducked behind the desk to bring out two more folders of sketches and photos of tattoos she’d done at Lincoln’s to add to the pile already on the table. “You’re welcome to peruse them. Let me know if you have any questions.” She caught Raven and Wells sharing a confused look after she’d left Bellamy sitting on the couch. “What?” Wells just smiles, shaking his head ruefully. She’d always thought of it as his ‘oh Clarke the things you don’t know about yourself could fill libraries’ look. It never failed to make her feel self conscious. Raven though, Raven looked impressed.   
               

“I’ve never seen anyone handle a Blake mood like that without years of practice. Not even the other Blake, although they’re basically the most drift compatible people I know.”  
               

“The other Blake?”   
               

“His sister, Octavia. Total badass. Neither of them have any social skills,” she frowned slightly. “I guess none of us have any social skills really. Side effect of growing up south of the river.”             

Before Clarke had a chance to ask Raven what she meant Bellamy swore loudly.   
               

“The fuck Raven?” The ‘downright murderous’ look on Bellamy’s face earlier was nothing compared to the perfect storm of fury and disgust there now. For the first time since he’d entered Gryphon Designs Clarke was actually afraid instead of mildly amused by the intimidation act.   
               

“What!?” Raven seemed startled by his sudden outburst.   
               

“She’s been inking Grounders?”  
               

“ _She’s_ been inking lots of people. _She_ doesn’t discriminate as long as people are willing to pay.” Raven shot Clarke a look that very clearly said ‘shut up for a minute please’.   
               

“Yeah well there’s not discriminating and there’s inking abusers and murderers.”   
               

“I don’t know who you’re referring to, but to my knowledge Lincoln never let me near anyone he’d classify as an abuser or a murderer.”  
               

“Lincoln,” Bellamy scoffed. “Did you hear that Reyes, the Arker thinks because some bleeding heart Grounder tells her she’s not dirtying her hands it must be true!”  
               

“Bellamy.” And in Raven’s mouth his name sounded like a caution. Clarke couldn’t work out who it was for though.   
               

“Just because I lived on the Ark Estate does not mean I’ve spent my life in an ivory tower, Bellamy Blake.” She spat. “I can tell you the names of all the people I’ve inked and you tell me if my hands are ‘dirty’.”  
               

“Clarke.” Wells warned. Clarke looked over her shoulder at him and realised just how far she’d moved. She was standing with her legs pressed up against the coffee table, Bellamy mirroring her on the other side. They were both leaning forward throwing words at each other like bullets. Wells and Raven stood to their right, solid and sure, and a little like they were ready to jump in and pull Clarke and Bellamy apart. She blinked. Pressing her thumb to the heart on her wrist, she took a deep breath and a step back.   
               

“Can I?” Raven asked Bellamy, waiting until he’d made eye contact and nodded before turning to Clarke. “Did you ever meet a man named Tristan?” Clarke shuddered involuntarily.   
               

“Once,” Raven’s face fell. Bellamy didn’t move, not an inch, not a breath. “Once was enough to know I never wanted a second encounter. He,” she took an unsteady breath, “I don’t know how to describe it. Something about him felt… off. I’ve only ever met one other person who made me feel that unsettled.” She shook her head, as if that could do anything. “Cage,” she clarified at Wells’ prompting. “Anyway, it was only an accidental meeting. I wasn’t supposed to go in that day, but I’d left my jacket the night before and well, Lincoln hurried me out after Tristan started, well we never crossed paths again.” With Wells’ hand on her elbow and the warmth in Raven’s eyes returning Clarke looked to Bellamy. The tension seemed to be leaving his shoulders, his face relaxing, not into a smile, but relaxing all the same. She let out a breath.   
               

“So, are you convinced, or do I have to threaten you with my swift departure from your life again?” Raven’s tone was light, but there was still something in her eyes that Clarke couldn’t identify.   
               

“Your swift departure from my life is what I dream about Reyes,” Bellamy shot back, like it was instinct.   
               

“Your life would go to shit without me babe, and don’t you forget it.”   
               

“Yeah yeah, alright.” Clarke waited for more, but judging by the return of Raven’s Helen of Troy smile that was both retort and answer.   
               

“He only wants a few words anyway; it’s always a big fuss over nothing with our fearless leader here,” and before Clarke registered what was happening Raven had herded Bellamy into a chair, and Clarke was holding a piece of paper with “nihil ante meos” printed neatly across the middle.   
               

“What’s it mean?”   
               

“It’s dead Roman speak for-“ Raven began, rolling her eyes.  
               

“Latin, Reyes.” Bellamy rolled his eyes right back. He looked up at Clarke. “Nothing before family.” Nothing before family tattooed in small, neat letters across his heart. Tall, dark, angry and a family man.   
               

Working on Bellamy was as different to working on Raven as was possible; he didn’t say a word, although occasionally he would draw in a sharp breath or wince dramatically. After the third time it happened Raven snorted so hard Clarke had to ask her to leave. She and Wells mentioned something about coffee before disappearing.   
               

“Afraid you’ll make a mistake if she stays? That doesn’t exactly inspire confidence, Princess.”   
               

“Call me Princess again and I’ll stick something sharper in you than this needle. How much confidence does that inspire?” He chuckled under her hand. “And do try not to move.”  
               

“So, _Clarke_ , you grew up living in the Ark Estate, you worked for a Grounder, and now you’re here, working on me.”   
               

“Yes. That about sums it up.”  
               

“I guess my question is, how exactly do you plan to stay neutral when war comes to Mt Weather?” She looked up at his face, to find deadly serious eyes looking back.   
               

“War is not coming to Mt Weather. We’re a town, not a country. Unless you plan on starting one, which would be incredibly stupid and only possible if-“ She broke off. Only possible if he was the mysterious leader of the 100, the relatively new players in an already tense town, the group of kids who seemed intent on causing as much grief to the Grounders as possible, as well as the police. In fact, it wasn’t just the leader who was mysterious. So far, according to the newspapers and, if Thelonious was to be believed, the police, none of the members had been identified. All they could tell was that at least one member was a genius with explosives, and several of them were believed to have served time.  
               

“Yeah,” Bellamy smirked. “What worries you most; that you’re being paid by criminals or that you didn’t know.” Clarke rolled her eyes.  
               

“What worries me most is that Lincoln and Wells were right. I am now caught in the middle of a particularly dangerous triangle. And you’re right; it concerns me that I didn’t know.”  
               

“You’re very calm.” He sounded surprised. Good, she thought.   
               

“Yes, well my last employer was a criminal, my clients were criminals, my dad was a criminal, and according to some people in the police department so am I, although they can’t do anything to prove it. Really this is just continuing a running theme.”  
               

“Well then, I think Raven’s right.” Clarke raised one eyebrow but didn’t look up; right about what? “She said we’d either be fast friends or kill each other.”  
               

“Be careful Bellamy. You’re in a vulnerable position right now and I still haven’t decided which I’d choose.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *waves nervously* hello again, i know, i know, i'm terrible at updates... but here, have some Wells and Clarke hang outs and an Octavia introduction!
> 
> thanks ever so much to pantsaretherealheroes for last minute betaing! 
> 
> enjoy x

“Well that was, interesting.” Clarke had been busying herself with closing up, and only hummed in acknowledgement when Wells spoke. He took it as encouragement to explain. “There was far less hostility in the air when Raven and I came back.” And again he paused, offering her an opportunity to jump in. Clarke nodded in agreement. “So you worked out why he was so upset about your association with Grounders? The two of you talked about what was bothering him?” The effortless translation of her silence was a testament to just how well he knew her. “Clarke –“

           

“What?” She’d meant to sound angry, expected to hear a little defensiveness in her tone no matter how hard she tried to hide it, but she just sounded tired.

           

“What can I do?” Not “what’s going on”, “what happened”, “are you okay”; she honestly didn’t deserve Wells.

           

“Come upstairs and watch a movie with me?” And before his disappointed face could guilt her into sharing what she’d learnt she added “plausible deniability.” Wells’ eyebrows shot up; it was clearly not the answer he’d been expecting.

           

“Regular plausible deniability, or ‘Wells your dad’s a cop’ plausible deniability?” She shrugged, leading the way up the stairs at the back of the shop and into her flat. It wasn’t big. In fact, it was just the right size for her. ‘Open plan kitchen, dining, living’ was really just a nice way of saying ‘if we added more walls there wouldn’t be anywhere to move’. Add to that her bedroom,  a bathroom no bigger than her closet had been growing up, and the apartment was complete. If she looked out the window she had a nice view from the bottom of the main street in Mt Weather all the way to the Ark Estate at the top of the hill. She couldn’t quite see the hospital though, hidden behind the shiny new building that housed Wallace Pharmaceuticals. Clarke hadn’t yet decided whether that was a blessing or a curse.

           

“Bit of both. So what do we want for dinner?” He rolled his eyes, but let her get away with her attempt at being cryptic.

           

“Well, we’ve tried Indian and the two pizza places, where else delivers here?” When Clarke moved in she had developed a plan of attack involving local restaurants and their delivery systems. She wasn’t harbouring any illusions of being able to cook for herself on a regular basis. They had figured even she would be sick of pasta within the week. So, take away test drive.

 

“Burgers, Mexican, Chinese…” Clarke listed off. “I think that’s it? What do you feel like?”

 

“Burgers. Definitely burgers.” Wells held up Pulp Fiction and Terminator.

 

“Pulp Fiction. Definitely Pulp Fiction,” she smiled. “What do you reckon they’d say if we ordered two Royales with cheese?”

 

The rest of the evening had passed easily. Wells didn’t attempt to ask her more questions she wasn’t inclined to answer, and Clarke let her mind wander away from thoughts of kids at war in the streets surrounding her new home.

Wells left after the movie, moaning about the lack of legroom in her flat.

 

“I know it doesn’t bother you, but you’re a tiny person. Honestly, the last time we were the same height we were ten years old. If I stay in this position any longer I’ll never be able to stand again.” She shoved him out the door, laughing, before settling back on the couch with her sketchbook. Usually she set out with something in mind; a muse, some piece of inspiration, a commission, but Clarke’s imagination had been nagging at her with indistinct visions and the urge, the _need,_ to draw. She doodled absentmindedly, eyes flicking between the page in her lap and the television in front of her. Two hours later she’d watched more episodes of Real Housewives than she’s comfortable admitting to and there is a nearly complete figure covered in ashes in her sketchbook.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Clarke woke at 9.30 the next morning, grinning into her pillow. Running her own business that didn’t have to open early? Priceless. She picked up her phone and wandered into the kitchen, scrolling through notifications; a friend request from Raven Reyes, two bookings for later in the week, and an email from CeCe with a coffee invitation and another request for a détente with Abby. Coffee sounded like fun.

 

She doesn’t have any bookings, but if she took all her data from the first few days it looked like walk ins were well on their way to being the norm. Gathering her sketchbook and her laptop she wandered downstairs.

 

A few hours passed before she was torn away from the incredibly important and time consuming task of Facebook stalking by the rumble of a bike engine. It stopped suddenly in front of her building, and then the bell above the door was jingling. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the afternoon light, was a tall man in a leather jacket, helmet tucked under his arm, heavy black boots decorated with vines and leaves she’d helped draw.

“Lincoln!” He smiled, walking in slowly, eyes wandering around the room.

 

“Nice set up.” Neither of them were particularly tactile or demonstrative, but after three years of working in close proximity that no longer mattered. Lincoln was one of the people whose approval Clarke had worked hard to earn.

 

“Thanks.” If her smile was a little sunnier than usual, a little more emotional, he would never mention it. Lincoln nodded. Lincoln was, and always would be, one of her favourites.

 

“Finished designing your next one then?” Clarke had, since the beginning, since Lincoln had taught her and she’d used her own skin for practice, been inking herself. She’d worked with a handful of Lincoln’s friends – mostly just Anya – but the only other person who had ever marked her skin was Lincoln. And only when she had decided she wanted the Milky Way painted across her back, in between her shoulder blades, in the style of van Gogh’s Starry Night. Clarke had grown up dreaming about the stars, and when Lincoln had finished she could sleep on them.

 

“How’d you – ?” She followed his gaze down to her hands, his eyebrows raised as if to say _really, really Clarke, you think I can’t tell_? And, “oh”, she blushed. Her fingertips were covered in graphite, and there were the inevitable tiny black marks all over her hands from the fine liner she favoured. “Yeah, last night. I figured a new project to mark the beginning of a new chapter in my life, or something else not quite as cliché.”

 

“Makes sense. After that first ni –“

 

“WE DO NOT SPEAK OF THE FIRST NIGHT! I was distraught,” she cut him off.

 

“As I was saying,” he chuckled. Lincoln was not her favourite. He was a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad friend and she was glad she was no longer working for him. “It makes sense. You always did go for meaning and a long drawn out thought process over spontaneity and aesthetic.” Which was true. After that first never to be mentioned again evening she had thought long and hard, not just about the design but about placement, about angles and colours and how best she could apply it herself. She was thorough and meticulous; these were not inherently bad qualities. They _were_ Griffin qualities. Growing up with Abby and Jake it was impossible not to have a little respect for methodical scientific metacognition. And if the last several years were anything to go by Clarke was a product of her environment. “Can I see it, or are you not ready for a reveal yet?”

 

She thought about it. The design was not necessarily a secret. Neither was the fact that Bellamy was the leader of the 100, if his heavy-handed hints were anything to go by. Or Raven’s probable involvement. Or the fact that they knew Lincoln. Or that Wells had spent several days sitting by Thelonius’ bed in the hospital a few months ago because of a member of the 100. But she wasn’t quite sure what to do with those facts. Not yet. Clarke wanted a hopeful secret too.

 

“Not yet. I might need to ask you about logistics when the time comes though.”

 

“Of course.” Lincoln moved closer and squeezed her shoulder, ducking his head to meet her eyes. “I’m proud of you Clarke.” She swallowed around the sudden tightness in her throat. But then he was moving backwards, rearranging his grip on his helmet to bring it up to his head. “I should head off. I was going to be in the area and thought I’d drop past. But I’m meeting… I’ve got a meeting to get to.”

 

“Lincoln,” she said slowly. “Lincoln, are you… blushing?” It didn’t matter that she could clearly see the evidence in front of her, it was too bizarre and unprecedented. Clarke giggled.  He rolled his eyes and mumbled something that sounded like shut up. “Is this a date meeting? Do you have a date? Do I need to threaten someone about heart breaking and its consequences?”

 

“Don’t even think about – “ but she was laughing in earnest now.

 

“Who’s the lucky girl?” And if Clarke had never seen Lincoln blush before, she’s definitely never seen him light up like a Christmas tree at the mention of anything that isn’t art.

 

“Her name’s Octavia.” _Huh._ As far as Clarke was aware Octavia was not a common name. “She’s, uh, she’s pretty amazing actually.”

 

“Pretty amazing? That’s about as effusive as you get. She must be freaking awesome… Her last name – it isn’t Blake, is it?” He looked confused.

 

“Yeah,” Lincoln said slowly. “Why?”

 

“No reason. Just I, um, I met a girl the other day, she mentioned the name.” Lincoln opened his mouth, but before he could respond to her non answer his phone started ringing.

 

“Hey!” So it must have been Octavia. “Sorry, I’m just down the street… In Gryphon Designs, do you know it? … Yeah, I’ll wait. See you soon.” Clarke watched him, smiling softly to herself when he smiled down at the phone screen before putting it back in his pocket. “Apparently I’m not getting out of introducing the two of you today.”

 

“I promise I won’t embarrass you.” Before the look of relief could settle on his face she added, “much.” Lincoln continued pottering around her studio space, flicking though her folders, while she settled back into sketching. No more than five minutes later the bell rang again. When Clarke looked up there was another leather clad silhouette standing in front of her. Octavia looked terrifying enough to be the girl Raven had described the day before; hair pulled back in several braids making her look like a Viking shield maiden, she had a small stretcher in one ear and several cuffs on the other, her stony expression however gave way to an easy smile when she spotted Clarke, turning into a smirk when Lincoln strode over from the couch. He bent down to kiss her, hands gently cupping her face, and Clarke had to look away. She wasn’t a stranger to public displays of affection, but Lincoln and Octavia were far more intimate than the kids she’d gone to school with, it felt wrong to watch. She heard Octavia giggle, and then she approached the counter Clarke was sitting behind. Before she could put her sketchbook down a hand was shoved under her nose.

 

“Octavia,” Octavia supplied.

 

“I know, I’m –“ Clarke began, taking the proffered hand and shaking it.

 

“Clarke, yeah.”

 

“Well that settles it then, you’re both notorious,” Lincoln smirks.

 

“Lincoln my love, why do you assume notoriety?”

 

“It could just be that we’re _that_ fabulous. People can’t **not** talk about us.” Both Clarke and Octavia gave Lincoln the same shit-eating grin. It would be really easy for them to be friends, Clarke thought, as Octavia sidled round the counter and bumped shoulders with her, sneaking a peek at the doodles on the page in front of them.

 

“I’m sure,” he replied somewhat sarcastically, grinning at the two of them. “This is a terrifying image, you know.” He added casually. Octavia looked down at Clarke, eyebrow raised and impossibly contagious smirk on her lips. She and Lincoln hung around chatting about nothing, Clarke learning that they met through Octavia’s work. Lincoln had started helping with the art program at the Youth Centre, Octavia had just started as a social worker.

 

“True love on the south side,” she finished like she was aiming for casual and sarcastic, landing somewhere around truthful and sincere. “We should head off, did you bring the extra helmet?” The look Lincoln gave her was pure ‘no shit’; the Lincoln Clarke knew and loved. “I’ll meet you out there.” Then Lincoln was waving goodbye and out the door before Clarke could say a word. She looked curiously at Octavia. “Okay, here’s the deal Clarke. I know you don’t know me, and have no reason to trust me, but I need you to please not tell Bellamy about Lincoln.”

 

“Riiight.” Clarke attempted to process, but whatever expression was on her face seemingly made Octavia nervous.

 

“Look, like I said, you owe me nothing. But, Lincoln knows, okay? So it’s, I’m not hurting him. I just need you to not tell Bell. Because that _might_ hurt him.” The reason for Octavia’s nervousness, and bizarre request hit Clarke like a ton of bricks. She reached out and squeezed Octavia’s shoulder.

 

“I promise.” The relief on the other girls face just reinforced how very out of her depth Clarke felt. She kept up the reassuring smile until the door swung shut, then promptly collapsed backwards against the wall. She slid down to the floor, dragging her sketchbook and laptop with her. Her legs wouldn’t work for a while but she still had work to do.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> your comments are much appreciated ♥  
> come talk to me on tumblr (manycoloureddays) about tattoos and the 100!


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